Twenty Twenty
by Feste the Fool
Summary: Arthur sees more than you would expect. Story and challenge inside!


**Just a little Merlin oneshot for anyone who cares to read it: and a challenge. See, any one of these subjects would make a _great_ full story, but I haven't got the time nor inclination to expand them. Wouldn't mind reading one, but can't write one. Tried. Crashed on runway. So here's the challenge: pick one and see if you can't expand it. Go ahead, I don't mind. Don't even credit me if you don't wanna. But give it a shot. Everybody likes prompts, right? **

**Also, I don't own Merlin.**

* * *

Contrary to popular opinion, Arthur isn't blind. He has a hard time, sometimes, seeing things right in front of his face, but he does notice things, learns things, _knows _things. Little things, but important things that have a bearing on his country. Things no one else can see.

He knows Merlin lost someone dear. Merlin will sneak off once a week. Arthur follows him sometimes, but he always does the same thing. He rides to a lake near the border, sits in the grass by the bank, and stares across the water for a couple of hours. Sometimes he talks, though Arthur's never close enough to hear what he says, and sometimes he cries. Then he stands, blows a kiss to the lake, and leaves. A few times Arthur has snuck down to his spot after he's gone, too. Each time Merlin visits, he leaves a white rose and three strawberries—even when neither of those is in season, which is alarming, but Arthur doesn't stress the point. The weekly visit feels too much like a memorial to start pointing fingers and making accusations. Arthur doesn't know what happened at the lake that would cause his friend so much pain, but he does know it's a private matter and doesn't ask questions.

He knows Elyan misses being a blacksmith. He notices that Elyan never allows the servants, not even Merlin, to care for his weapons and armor. He insists on taking care of them himself, even when time would not allow him otherwise. No one else is to touch his things. He points out every chip in someone's shield, every warp in a helmet. He knows just by looking what swords are better than others, and can tell with one touch when a blade's balance is off. He is better at sharpening things than anyone else and offers to sharpen the other knight's swords when Arthur gives the men a day off. Arthur notices the looks of longing he gives his father's forge when they pass through the lower town, the hurt that flickers in his eyes when he sees someone else tending to the fires. Being a knight takes up all his time and energy; it's his job now. Arthur knows Elyan doesn't regret it, but he can see how much he _misses _being a blacksmith.

He knows the man who lives in the bell tower has magic. He always wondered how a man who never left that remote corner of the castle could know something was wrong before anyone else. His father always said it was because the tower was high, and the man could see everything that went on. He knew that wasn't right, because most of the things one would ring the warning bell for happen inside the castle. Arthur finally went up there one day, hiding in the shadows along the stairs. The man is very old, older than Gaius and Arthur knows of no one older. He has one window in the tower with a ton of strings tied to the ledge. While Arthur watched, one of the strings changed color. The bell keeper tugged on it and an image appeared in midair, a picture of a hallway in the dungeons; someone had opened a door meant to be closed. The bell keeper rang the bell and Arthur ran down the stairs, his heart racing. He didn't talk to his father about it afterward. He knew without thinking about it that his father knew already. He had a feeling the man had been offered a choice; protect Camelot or die. The ultimatum did not make the man loyal to Uther; he would keep the bell for whomever occupied Camelot, whether or not they had a right to be there. Arthur thought perhaps that the ultimatum made his father a hypocrite, but then changed his mind. Sometimes a king must break his own laws if it keeps his people safe from harm.

He knows why Gwaine drinks. That one was harder to figure out and took a long time, because he stopped drinking so much after he came to Camelot to stay. In the beginning when everything was rough, Gwaine was in the tavern every day. Arthur often had to fish him out in the morning for practice. He knew Gwaine had a tendency to name everyone he drank with as a friend, and he knew Gwaine's visits to the tavern became less and less frequent after he befriended first Percival, then Elyan, then Lancelot, then Leon. Arthur noticed that now, before the tavern, Gwaine would seek out someone to talk to, or pull a prank with (or on) or to find whatever girl fancies him that week, or even to Merlin to help him with his chores. The tavern is a last resort. Gwaine goes to the tavern first, Arthur notices, if he is in a fight with someone else. Gwaine is a social man, but a personal one as well. He drinks when he is lonely, but Arthur isn't entirely sure that Gwaine knows that himself.

He knows Percival loves children, and children love Percival as well. There's not a child within the walls of Camelot who doesn't know Percival by name and sight. If he is late for anything it's because he stopped on the way for a chat or a game or to hold a rope or push someone out of a busy street. Percival knows people by who their children are, recognizes faces of parents he's never met by the features they share with the children he plays with. Adults rarely hear him speak; children hear him _sing. _Visiting commoners and dignitaries alike sometimes bring their children, and their children run to Percival instinctively, as if seeing a kindred spirit. Arthur also notices the deep, limitless grief in Pericval's eyes as the children leave to return to their homes. He sees the tears the big man sometimes brushes away after a game is finished. He suspects, though he isn't sure, that Percival was a father once, before Cenred took everything away from him. He can't imagine what that must be like.

He knows his sword isn't as old as Merlin said it was. Arthur knows weapons better than he knows himself. The sword he keeps at his side couldn't possibly be more than ten years old at the most. It is of a more recent cut and metal—alloys that were not available to ancient smiths, techniques that had not been thought of yet. It shows signs of both wear and care—like it wasn't used for a long time and was kept in a place that would usually be bad for metal. Like someone has tried to remove all signs of ill use, and done it well, but the years have left their mark regardless. The blade doesn't rust and doesn't need sharpening, but he would expect that of a sword enchanted to a stone hundreds of years ago. It's something more than that. He would be willing to disregard all that except that the stone story doesn't stick. He'd seen the spot that Merlin had lead him to, seen it hunting and riding. He'd actually had a picnic there, with his nurse, when he was small. It was an out of the way spot, sure, but not an unheard of one. He didn't know who had stuck the sword in the stone or why, or why they'd told Merlin about it, but Arthur knew it was a roundabout way of being helpful. Whoever it was was trying to help him, and he honors that by keeping silent.

He knows Gaius used to lie to the king, and sometimes lies to him now. Gaius is comfortable in any situation, strong and steady and smooth. But he was strongest and steadiest when he told Uther something and glanced down at his feet as soon as the king turned away. Arthur nearly fell over the first time he saw it and realized what it meant. The physician doesn't blink as often when he lies, and looks away when the lie is over, and holds himself more confidently before he speaks falsehood. He saw it many times when his father was alive. Sometimes he sees it when Gaius speaks to him. He'll never say anything. He knows Gaius, trusts him despite the lying. He knows that Gaius wouldn't do it if it wasn't absolutely necessary—and that's what he clings to when he speaks to the physician and sees his shoulders lock and relax and knows he can dismiss anything he's about to hear.

Arthur knows Leon is being bullied. _Bullied. _It's perhaps not _quite _the right word for what's going on, but he can't think of one better. Leon is a nobleman from a noble family. He was his father's youngest son, and then one that held the most promise. For a long time he made his family proud—the best and most trusted of King Uther's knights, a man of Arthur's absolute confidence and friendship. Now Leon has more honors than ever but he never looks happy to see his family any more. The other nobles, as well. Arthur has noticed when Leon passes some of the other nobles his fists clench, his knuckles go white, his jaw sets, and the nobles glare as he walks by. It's because Leon is one of his Round Table knights, Arthur knows. The only one of the lot of them other than Arthur himself who has noble blood. Leon stopped spending time with his noble friends and started spending more time with Arthur's ragtag peasant knights—the Table knights have a deeper bond of brotherhood, and besides that, Arthur knows most of the nobles are unaccepting of the peasants. They can't do anything to the peasants themselves, as they have proved themselves time and time again, and they are Arthur's friends. They can't do anything to Arthur, either, because he is the king. But Leon is a noble and evidently isn't supposed to treat the riffraff as his brothers-in-arms. Sometimes he sees evidence of a fight on Leon's knuckles and jaw, and on several of the noble knights' as well. He has told Leon to let him know if anything is the matter, but the knight says nothing. Arthur trusts that he can handle it himself, but still keeps a close eye on him. He will not let the matter go too far.

He knows the dragon isn't really dead. He hears reports of a dark figure flying over the adjacent countries and knows without a doubt exactly what it is. He hears the farmers from the outlying villages who complain of missing livestock when no large predators have been reported in the areas. Sometimes he even sees the dragon over the battlements, flying low and at night, stopping at the clearing beyond the castle. It stays for a while, then flies off. It never gets any closer. He doesn't know why it doesn't return to Camelot and he doesn't care. He will not send men after it. He lost enough the first time. Dragons are as close to impossible to fight as he's ever come before. As far as he's concerned, as long as the dragon doesn't threaten Camelot there is no reason in the world that he should threaten it.

Arthur sees more things than most people give him credit for. He knows more than many will ever realize. His eyes are ever fixed on his beloved Camelot, and so determined is he to pour his all into his country, he notices things than many would disregard or ignore. Arthur doesn't, but he doesn't always voice his concerns or complaints either. He knows when he is being helped, or when he can't be of any help. He knows, sometimes, he can best serve his land by doing nothing. So he does nothing but watch. Nothing but watch and see.

Sometimes the greatest of goods can be done only with one's eyes.


End file.
